


every traffic light is red when it tells the truth

by sycamoretrees



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 09:29:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16889982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sycamoretrees/pseuds/sycamoretrees
Summary: ‘Fuck,’ Jon chuckles, ‘what would that even look like? Lovett turned up to 11?’





	every traffic light is red when it tells the truth

‘Do you think one day we’ll push him over the edge?’

Sweat prickles along Tommy’s lower back, sticky and humid against Jon’s slick leather couch. His bare feet are propped up on the coffee table, manspreading in a way Lovett would definitely call him on. They’ve been talking shit all evening, getting dumber as the forest of empty beer bottles grows around them. Tommy’s cheeks hurt from laughing at Jon’s terrible impression of Lovett. In reality Jon is terrible at impressions and should never do them, but something in his attempt to contort his face into Lovett’s self-righteous indignation made Tommy crack up, and then Jon was laughing too, setting each other off until they were both oxygen-deprived and hysterical.

Jon has his head tipped back, staring glazed up at the ceiling. The warm late-night glow catches the long line of his throat down to his collar bones. He turns his head and catches Tommy’s eye and they crack up again, like the couple of dumb, drunk bozos they are.

The train of thought rears up again in Tommy’s head. ‘Do you think he’ll snap?’

‘Fuck,’ Jon chuckles, ‘what would that even look like? Lovett turned up to 11?’

‘God, I can’t even imagine,’ Tommy laughs quietly. ‘He’s so…’

He’s not sure how to finish the sentence, when he gets there. The missing adjective hangs in the air between them.

‘Yeah,’ says Jon, after a quiet moment. His voice is soft, and raspy, and Tommy can feel the heat coming off his body, the way his breathing is coming a little faster.

‘Do you think he’d - do you think he’d like it?’ Tommy asks, stumbling over his words. He can feel Jon tense next to him, like he’s bracing for some kind of impact, but he cant stop himself. ‘Do you think he wants it?’

And Jon flinches. ‘Fuck, Tommy.’

'Sometimes I think -,’ Tommy’s mouth is running like he’s not in charge of it, 'sometimes I think he needs it, needs us to shut him up, even when he gets so mad.’

The words keep tumbling out, like Tommy’s been thinking about this for a while, like he’s been holding it in. Tommy doesn’t think he has been, at least not like this, not with this hot urgent hook in his belly dragging the words out of him. He’s warm all over, from more than just the alcohol, more than the sticky summer evening. He can feel the blush in his cheeks, down his neck. It usually makes him self-conscious; now it makes him feel tight and desperate.

He thinks about Lovett, eyes gleaming, seeing what he can get away with. Testing the fences, as he says.

‘I think he likes it when we tell him to stop,’ Jon says, snapping Tommy back out of his head. ‘I think he loves it.’

Tommy had half-convinced himself that Jon wasn’t paying attention. He glances over at Jon, quickly so Jon won’t see, and Jon’s still resting his head back, eyes closed, one of his hands resting over his crotch. Tommy swallows.

‘I tried cutting him off once, a whole day. I just didn’t - I just let him run his mouth and I didn’t give him anything. Fuck, I thought he was going to hit me. He got so -,’ Jon breaks off, this tight laugh that seems to get stuck low in his throat.

‘So needy,’ Tommy finishes, breathless.

‘Yeah,’ Jon says, ‘fuck.’

The air feels thick. Tommy finds his hand reflexively gripping the fabric of his pants against his thigh, his dick pressing against his zipper. He shifts, trying to reposition, and his arm bumps against Jon’s elbow. Jon makes a choked noise, and when Tommy follows the line of his arm down he sees why, sees Jon pressing the heel of his hand over his crotch, where the shape of his dick is showing through his sweats. He’s pushing his hips up minutely, like he doesn’t know he’s doing it.

‘I wanna…’ he trails off. Tommy doesn’t know what he wants. He feels untethered.

‘Sometimes I wonder what he’d let us do,’ Jon says, all in one breath, reaching under the waistband of his sweatpants, stretching them just low enough that Tommy can see the V leading from his hipbones, the dark neatly-manicured fuzz between them.

Tommy’s holding himself tightly, his focus pinging frantically between the dizzying array of images flashing through his mind - Lovett’s mouth, the obstinate smirk when he’s interrupted, his thick thighs sprawled over Tommy’s couch - and his shamefully hard dick. He feels like a teenager, sticky and frantic in his boxers, hoping no one can tell.

‘I wanna see what he’d do if we just - just made him stop,’ Jon says, his voice all smoothed out from tequila, and fuck it, Tommy’s not a teenager any more. Unzipping his pants feels fucking amazing, and it’s such a relief when he finally gets his hand on himself that he moans before he can stop it.

‘He’d be pissed, you know how he gets, all tight and controlled like he thinks he’s hiding it,’ Jon’s saying. He’s shifted lower on the couch, spread his legs wider while Tommy wasn’t paying attention. He doesn’t mean to watch but he finds himself tracking Jon’s hand as he pulls it out of his pants, licks his palm, and reaches back down. Tommy’s done some X-rated stuff in his life, he’s seen some things, but the slick noise of Jon jerking himself off is… it’s a lot.

‘Do you think he’d - beg?’ Tommy asks, because this has gone so much fucking further than he ever anticipated but he can’t help but want more.

‘Shit, he’d try not to, he’d fucking hate it,’ Jon laughs, ‘can you imagine? So much bitching, he’d be such a brat. I don’t know how the guys he fucks put up with him.’

Tommy doesn’t want to think about other guys fucking Lovett, except for how he sort of does. He’d never considered what it would be like, to have Lovett like that. All that genius, that brilliance, raw and stripped down and wanting. His fingers stutter on his dick, slippery with precome and sweat.

‘We’d do it better,’ he says, and Jon makes a hurt noise next to him, his thigh pressing harder against Tommy’s. ‘What d’you think he’d do if we shut him up? If we -’

‘A fucking ball gag, God, I -’ Jon cuts in.

‘Your fingers in his mouth, your dick -’

'I bet we could make him cry,’ Jon says, sounding desperate.

'Oh, shit,’ Tommy gasps, coming all over his fingers, making these stupid punched-out sounds he hopes Jon doesn’t notice. His dick is still jerking in his hand, making a mess of his pants and jesus, maybe the couch, when Jon groans, his hips twisting. He watches Jon’s abs tighten, a dark, sticky blotch spreading over his sweats. Fuck, whose O-face is that handsome, it’s infuriating.

‘Ugh,’ Jon says, grimacing, when he pulls his hand out of his pants. He wipes it on his shirt in a way Tommy knows he’ll be appalled by when he sobers up. ‘We, uh. Lovett probably shouldn’t find out about this.’

Tommy knows he’s right. He does. Best case, Lovett would be insufferably smug and make lots of knowing references to sublimation.

Or, well. Maybe their best case might look a little different.

‘Yeah. Maybe,’ he says.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr 11/9/2017 with an accompanying gifset](http://sycamoretrees.tumblr.com/post/165206555342/amazonplanet-bradleyswhitford-when-you-love) which is helpful context!


End file.
